An Interview with a Mountainscape

18 January 2010 § 3 Comments

You know the story – a person looking for a job, a school, a social circle of chess players, adventurers, or dog trainers, and running into the inevitable difficulty of qualification: experience, education, skill, money. The things we’d like are just outside the gate that moves over you instead of you moving under it: it strips you to nothing, sprays its pressure and accumulated stress into every cut and crevice your body has to offer, and any idealistic association you once had with such entity is first gently touched by this amalgamation of Truth.

It is caressed, and you feel yourself looking down at it. This notion is in your hands, and you are holding it with great conviction but Truth reaches out, lifts your chin up with a delicate finger and with the other hand firmly grasps at whatever you have and pulls it away. Slowly at first, and after you’ve helplessly fought it for a few moments, the passion in your eyes flickers and dims (but only be a shade, for the war is not yet won), Truth smiling into them with ridiculous confidence and steps away, with your ideals tucked behind its back. It stands stoically and leaves you be.

All you’re left with now is a will to survive and maybe the hope that Truth was wrong this time, that you’re somehow a unique design and did not recently step off a conveyor belt. And so we march together.

Perhaps they are looking for a perfect candidate to fill the missing hole: with the various degrees, paper and of interest and motivation. Experience must be had (because they forbid themselves to be the first. Forgive them – they are human (maybe), and over the generations, we have spent much time with sheep, learning their ways and adopting these traits unconsciously) because you cannot have only recently decided to change professions or hobby: it must be instilled in you like i before e except after c, the memory of the girl or boy who first rejected you, or how your parents taught you how to do the dishes and how you still tend to do them that way.

That same high school self made every important life decision within months of an immature graduation into the world of the tiger’s economy, where humans and lions and dogs all lie in wait for an enemy, a gazelle, a housecat. Upon their arrival, our sleuth will reveal himself as the king of the local terrain, the IRS man, or simply bark. A toll must be exacted, and the process of removing your head from your shoulders will be lesson the first in Anatomy 510 (you took the prerequisites, Right?). That education is necessary, required!

But we may be willing to train you.

Another theory is that they, unlike your own self, have had their direction and ways set in stone and not the Dalai Lama or Genghis Khan could dissuade them from their path from the suburbs, left on the freeway, thirty-six and one half miles, exit right at Long St., and off to work again. That road is silk, and will persist for lifetimes. Somewhere along it, however, there was knowledge in a jar, and when they were fixing a flat tire, that airholepunctured jar rolled under the car and hit them in the foot. Apprehensive at first, this commuter tossed it in the back seat and after a few weeks opened it up, and now … now they look for what comes naturally.

It is with this hope that you hold that little glass container of idealism, out of sight now, and with it you feel strong: a scholar again, an advocate of change (which tends to be a gruesome issue in autopsy rooms and courtroom witness stands – where one sits), a renewed being that looks at the sunrise as being less symbolic than usual: it is there, and it knows what it’s doing because it does it every day. The horizon is no longer surprised when the sun sneaks up on it every morning, around the same time…

wait.

We can’t think this way! We are the lovechildren of originality, and those affairs were later applauded by the scandalous parade of those who sought to destroy us. We have taken the road not taken and it bemused us to no end. And then, in a moment of chaotic movement, we spun like a troupe of  Taz’s pub mates, and sprinted off in the other direction. It was then that the compass was lost quite intentionally, and that abandon we held dear, cooing it and blowing oxygen to fuel it. Those lungs produced wildfire, and despite the efforts of helicopter pilots and scuba divers, that forest’s determination did not falter. It burned like acetylene hearts, bright blue – the sky behind the sun at noon. And this rebirth will be jotted down with a scribe’s frustration. Recorded by a liquid medium, flames spread out with jagged wings, fueled still by the poet’s ink, and across the avalanchecollapsed peaks, where trees no longer venture. They learned this lesson yesterday, on time, and decided not to stay for the entertainment later.

the winter has arrived.

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